of the mob, screaming and trying to get out of the way; and every window along the road was full of women's heads, and there was nigger boys in every tree, and bucks and wenches looking over every fence; and as soon as the mob would get nearly to them they would break and skaddle back out of reach.  Lots of the women and girls was crying and taking on, scared most to death. They swarmed up in front of Sherburn's palings as thick as they could jam together, and you couldn't hear yourself think for the noise.  It was a little twenty-foot yard.  Some sung out “Tear down the fence! tear down the fence!”  Then there was a racket of ripping and tearing and smashing, and down she goes, and the front wall of the crowd begins to roll in like a wave. Just then Sherburn steps out on to the roof of his little front porch, with a double-barrel gun in his hand, and takes his stand, perfectly ca'm and deliberate, not saying a word.  The racket stopped, and the wave sucked back. Sherburn never said a word--just stood there, looking down.  The stillness was awful creepy and uncomfortable.  Sherburn run his eye slow along the crowd; and wherever it struck the people tried a little to out-gaze him, but they couldn't; they dropped their eyes and looked sneaky. Then pretty soon Sherburn sort of laughed; not the pleasant kind, but the kind that makes you feel like when you are eating bread that's got sand in it. Then he says, slow and scornful: “The idea of _you_ lynching anybody!  It's amusing.  The idea of you thinking you had pluck enough to lynch a _man_!  Because you're brave enough to tar and feather poor friendless cast-out women that come along here, did that make you think you had grit enough to lay your hands on a _man_?  Why, a _man's_ safe in the hands of ten thousand of your kind--as long as it's daytime and you're not behind him. “Do I know you?  I know you clear through. I was born and raised in the South, and I've lived in the North; so I know the average all aroun